


and the world's a little brighter

by fisticuffs_lesbian



Category: RWBY
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Happy Ending, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Marriage, Nicknames, Post-Canon, because they're engaged and in love and they're gonna get married, happy valentine's day!!!!, qrow and clover decide on which last name to take, this is so fucking SOFT and FLUFFY i almost died writing it, well. they're just planning it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:49:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22705726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fisticuffs_lesbian/pseuds/fisticuffs_lesbian
Summary: There's something so effortless and simple about it: lying on their bed together, soaking in the mid-afternoon sunlight as they try to figure out something small, something huge, something that'll impact the rest of their lives, echoing from the past into the future.Honestly, Qrow never thought he would find a happiness like this.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Comments: 50
Kudos: 118





	and the world's a little brighter

**Author's Note:**

> happy valentine's day <3 these two lovebirds deserve better, so here's my first little attempt to give them just that. now fully beta'd!!!!!!!! thank u LJ as always <3 ur feedback was incredibly helpful, even if most of it was u yelling about how tender this is LMAO
> 
> title from 'accidentally in love', you know, from the shrek 2 soundtrack? yeah

“Qrow Ebi.”

“Mm… ehh….”

“Then… Clover Branwen…?”

Qrow considers it before letting out another noncommittal hum.

Beside him, Clover laughs a little, rolling onto his back and thus, closer to his fiancé. “What’s wrong with that one?”

Qrow waves a hand in the air, jaw working soundlessly, before he drops his hand back onto the bed. “It just… doesn’t _sound_ right, I guess.”

“Well, neither of them are gonna sound right, at least not at first,” Clover reminds him, giving the man a little nudge with his elbow. “But we have to make a choice, right? One or the other. It shouldn’t be that hard.”

“And yet… it is,” Qrow sighs, faux-dramatic. Clover snorts in laughter, a reward all on its own, and shoves him again, though this time he lingers on the contact. Qrow slumps forward on the mattress, hands stacked under his chin, before he turns his head, cheek pressing against his knuckles. Looks up at Clover, caught in the mid-afternoon sunlight streaming through their bedroom window, golden and beautiful and all his.

It takes a handful of seconds for Clover to notice, but when he does, he smiles. Something warm and honeyed floods Qrow’s heart at the sight. “What, do I have something on my face?”

Qrow hums, then shoves himself over with one hand to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Now you do,” he says smoothly, grinning softly at the slight blush that spreads over Clover’s cheeks.

“You’re trying to distract me,” Clover accuses, voice warm with amusement.

Qrow grins, shameless and purposefully over-the-top. “Is it working?”

And then Clover’s eyes go soft and tender, and he says, “Always,” in such an earnest voice that all at once, it’s Qrow’s turn to flush.

“Ugh, _stop_ ,” Qrow groans, weak even to his own ears.

Clover rolls back onto his stomach — but by doing so in Qrow’s direction, he ends up sprawled half on top of him, the empty space between them not nearly enough for an entire person. His arm drapes over Qrow’s shoulders, one leg tangling with the unlucky Huntsman’s ridiculously long legs — Clover once joked about that, told him, _it makes sense you turn into a bird, what with twig legs like that_ , met by an indignant squawk from Qrow and a smack on the shoulder — and his head drops onto his shoulder, right in the crook of his neck.

Qrow squawks, so hilariously similar to that time that Clover can’t help but laugh.

“Now who’s distracting who, huh?” Qrow demands, face delightfully red as he makes no move to shift away or shove Clover off.

“Still debatable,” Clover replies easily, straight-faced. The only straight thing about him, really.

Qrow waves his free hand, the one not trapped under his ridiculously toned fiancé. “Actually, shockingly enough, it’s still you — and I’m trying to focus! You should be too, shamrock. We’ve got a decision to make, remember? Not to mention an entire wedding to plan outside of that.”

There’s a single beat of silence in which Clover lies still, as if trying to soak up all the contact he can, before—

“Guess you’re right,” he sighs, playing up his sorrow as he shifts back onto the bed, hand briefly resting on the back of Qrow’s neck before it moves away. Qrow represses the urge to shiver.

“Hey, I’m always right,” he manages to say, somehow, “you should know that by now, Cloves, come on.”

“Right, of course,” Clover hums, amused, as he picks up his notepad and pencil, pressing the eraser against his temple. For the last hour or so, he’s been intermittently writing down the types of flowers he wants at their wedding — with a pen and paper, of all things, instead of his scroll, because despite growing up in _Atlas_ , he has a strange knack for traditional stuff like this. When Qrow glances over, he can see there’s a good amount of his own favorites mixed in there with Clover’s — and, after another minute of scanning the list, he realizes Clover also left out all the flowers he knows Qrow dislikes, including the vividly bright yellow ones from Tai’s now-overgrown garden. The ones he can’t remember the name of, that give him a headache in his corvid form. Gods, Qrow loves him so much.

“Well,” Clover says into the silence, “as much as I like the idea of you with my last name—” Qrow snorts, shoves at him playfully, “—I kind of like Clover Branwen better.”

Something about Qrow goes still, quiet. His hand drops, picking a little at the threaded design on their comforter. “Yeah?” he asks softly.

Clover sits up on his elbows, getting a better look at him. He’s long since learned how to read Qrow, to see through the cracks, the spaces between the lines, all the words he leaves unspoken. “You don’t agree,” he says, his tone half-questioning.

Qrow sighs a little, lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “It’s…” he starts, and then trails away. His eyes find the window, glazing over until he’s a thousand miles away.

After only a heartbeat of hesitation, Clover puts his pencil down and reaches out, his hand lightly resting on Qrow’s tousled mess of hair. Strokes his head a few times, slowly, his fingers nestling gently between feather-soft strands. _Come back to me, pretty bird_ , he doesn’t say, hoping Qrow will hear it regardless.

Sure enough, just a moment later, Qrow blinks, and lets out a distant hum. When he turns back, there’s a lingering sadness on his face Clover wishes he could kiss away.

“Sorry—”

“Don’t be,” Clover says, gentle and firm and casual all at once.

A small smile finds Qrow’s face, and he nods, a fraction of the newfound tension in his shoulders bleeding off just with that.

“It’s not like I don’t want you to take it,” he says slowly, like he’s figuring the words out for himself as he speaks them, “but it also… is, I guess?”

Clover hums a little, hand still stroking Qrow’s hair, soft and unhurried. “So, the problem. Is it me, or the name?”

“The name,” Qrow says quickly, not leaving any room for doubt. _Of course it isn’t you. It could never be you_. “It’s just… I’ve never thought to have a problem with it being mine. It’s a part of me, a part of my history. But that history… not all of it is necessarily mine, as far as the name goes.”

The light in Clover’s eyes darkens, just a little. He’s heard the stories; none of them good.

“Obviously there’s the reputation I made for myself, the one that doesn’t exactly mean I’ll be welcomed everywhere I go with open arms,” Qrow says, chuckling a little. “But then, there’s also the reputation Raven made for herself. The reputation the Branwen name held, before I was even born.”

“The tribe,” Clover says, after a slight pause.

“Yeah, the tribe,” Qrow affirms, shoulders drooping a bit. “It’s… as long as I’ve known it, there’s never been anything good attached to the Branwen name. Giving it to you — sharing it with you, and making it yours, too — it just doesn’t feel right, somehow.”

 _Like I don’t want it near you_ , he doesn’t say, _like I want to keep the bloody and broken pieces of myself as far away from your light as possible_. But he doesn’t voice it, because that’s not fair. It’s not for him to decide — and besides, he’s shared plenty of his past with Clover. His lucky charm has made it clear, time and time again, that Qrow should never feel as though there’s any part of himself he has to hide from him. Qrow knows that, now, and is so much better for it, so much lighter.

This, though. This is different. This is their future, and Qrow wants to do it right. Giving Clover the Branwen name… he knows that’s not how to do it.

Clover thinks for a minute. “And you don’t want mine,” he confirms.

Qrow’s mouth twists a little, eyes dropping down. “I just don’t know if I can let mine go,” he confesses. “It doesn’t feel right, somehow. Like I’m leaving too much behind. And besides that — I hate to say it, but Qrow Ebi doesn’t really roll off the tongue, does it?”

“...Guess not,” Clover sighs, letting his hand drop. _Qrow Branwen_ and _Clover Ebi_. They both have so much attached to their names, emotions and history and habit, familiarity that runs deeper than anything else in the world. How can one of them ask the other to cut that away?

“Let’s — hmm,” Qrow starts, and stops. His brow is furrowed, like something is coming to him.

“Hm?”

“How about — we could hyphenate, then?” Beside him, Clover blinks, intrigue rising on his face. After only a split second of hesitation, Qrow takes his hand, smiles at him, and continues. “That way, I’ll have a piece of you, and you’ll have a piece of me. Fair trade. We share what we’ve got with each other, and we’ll — we can finally match. Yeah.”

He doesn't add, _the Branwen family name isn't quite as terrible with yours next to it,_ but he thinks Clover hears it anyways.

“Huh,” Clover gets out. And then he’s silent, for a long moment.

Anxiety starts to gnaw at Qrow’s lungs. “I mean — I don’t know. It’s just an idea, we don’t have to—”

“Clover Branwen-Ebi,” Clover says at once. Qrow stops, voice dying in his throat, because — it’s perfect.

“Yeah,” Qrow says hoarsely. _That’s it_.

Clover looks up and their eyes meet, teal on rust. “And… Qrow Branwen-Ebi,” he murmurs, lifting Qrow’s hand to press a kiss to his knuckles.

Something flutters in Qrow’s heart, then; something so deep, so alive with love. Hearing his name like that, from Clover — it sounds like music, like fate put into words. “It’s perfect, Cloves,” he says, husky and honest.

Clover’s eyes are full of light. “Yeah?” he says, nearly breathless, “you think so?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Qrow says, half-laughter, because _gods_ , they must be stupid. If it took them this long to find their way to such an obvious solution. It feels like it was always there, waiting for them in the shadows, quiet and patient — as if their names, just like the two of them, have waited so very long to be joined together, two halves of a whole. Qrow hates to think he’s making a big fucking deal out of it, but it’s just — giddiness rises in him. _Qrow Branwen-Ebi._ That’s going to be his _name_. Something else to fall in love with; a new piece of himself that he can love. A piece he’ll share with the man he adores more than anything. It’s his; it’s _theirs_ ; it’s truly perfect, in every sense of the word.

“Good,” Clover says, grinning, “good, because I love it too.” He spreads his arms open; an invitation, always stepping up to meet him halfway.

With an impossible lightness in his ribs, Qrow shoves himself forward and falls into Clover’s arms, fitting in them perfectly. Like thunder after lightning, like the tide’s endless ebb and flow, like wings on a bird — it’s where he’s meant to be.

Qrow buries his face in Clover’s shoulder and breathes him in, pine and earth and something that makes him feel endlessly safe. They fit against each other so effortlessly, like two pieces of the same soul that waited so long to be united, settling into each other like they don’t know any other way to _be_. Grabbing on to the fluttering happiness in his chest with both hands, Qrow pulls back to press his lips to Clover’s, a kiss that lasts a handful of seconds and a lifetime. It’s deep and gentle and sweet, rich with love, until one of them giggles a little and the other follows suit, pulling apart to press their foreheads together, basking in each other’s warmth and adoration.

Qrow never thought he would find happiness like this. Once upon a time, he thought he’d find it with his weapon buried in the throats of Huntsmen and Huntresses, racking up a kill count with Raven at his back and the world on the other side of the fight. Thought he’d find it with Team STRQ, in the long hallways and tall ceilings of Beacon, laughter and detention and missions and the heady, newfound joy of _belonging_. But that — that was a long time ago. For so many years, now, he expected… he didn’t even think he’d find happiness. It found him, in bits and pieces — Ruby and Yang, Tai’s rare smiles, the even rarer kindness of strangers — but between losing himself in grief and alcohol and the relentless stranglehold noose of his Semblance, he always figured he would meet his end on one of Oz’s missions, at the end of one of Salem’s lackey’s weapons or in the jaws of a Grimm. Whoever got lucky first. Not that it would be hard, considering it’s him. _Happiness_ wasn't even a part of the equation, not even a distant thought. There was only soul-crushing depression, and something a little less bad than that.

He never thought he would find his happiness here — in blueberry pancakes on Sunday mornings, in their little garden out back bursting at the seams with hyacinths and zinnias in every color and an absurd number of four-leaf clovers, in curling up on Clover’s lap in his corvid form to nap in the late afternoon sun. In laughing at dumb luck puns and bad flirting, every day, because it never, ever gets old. In gentle kisses as snow falls slow and silent outside. In learning each other’s favorite songs, favorite foods, favorite places to be kissed. In Clover’s eyes, because every time he looks into them, he swears he falls in love all over again. In the way he knows Clover feels the same way.

“Hey, Cloves?”

“Mm?”

“I love you.”

To the boy who wanted to fight the world; to the teenager who thought he knew what war and happiness were; to the man who lost himself in grief and self-hatred and the wrong end of a bottle — to them, the thought of saying those words was a fantasy, juvenile and foolish. None of the people he used to be would have ever even tried; not to anyone, not for anything. It would be between the lines, in gestures and words, both spoken and unspoken, but never those three words. And he didn’t think he would get the chance to say them, either. Not like this. _Never_ like this.

Now, in reply, he gets a chuckle, warm and fond. He gets to look down and see the man he loves in his arms, sunkissed and perfect. Gets to watch him say, in return:

“I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> episode 12 was a collective fever dream and i will accept nothing else lol <3
> 
> anyways come say hi on tumblr!!! i'm @fisticuffs-lesbian
> 
> ALSO please leave a comment if you can!!! it doesn't have to be anything fancy, anything at all would be lovely and make me incredibly happy


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